Table violence
The lady seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood that day. She scanned her children at the table with a radiant expression: Mycroft slowly eating his red velvet cake, Sherlock with no expression at all, and Rose, who was always so cautious.
"Sherl, there's a charity sale next Tuesday. I think you'll be there to play the violin, right? It's a great opportunity to make a name for yourself."
Sherlock thought for a few seconds, but still said, "Mother, I already have plans for next Tuesday."
"Reject it." The lady's command was concise and brief.
The air was silent for a moment, then Sherlock gave a muffled "hmm." He lowered his head, his eyes closed, and subtly quickened his pace of eating.
“You’re not eating enough vegetables,” the lady said, her tone displeased. “Eat everything on your plate. And no more fruit. Nobles need to live a life of moderation. Sherlly, when will you ever give me a break?”
Sherlock's eyes were already showing emotion, but he still took a deep breath and picked up his food with his fork.
“Wait a minute,” the lady stopped him, turning to the butler beside her. “How many times did he chew before swallowing the cauliflower?”
“It’s five times, Madam,” the butler replied respectfully.
The lady's eyes instantly fixed on Sherlock: "Sherl, how many times have I told you that a refined nobleman should chew his food at least seven times before swallowing? Look at your rude manner now, how are you any different from those cooks in the tavern? Do you deserve this title?"
“I didn’t need this title in the first place!” Sherlock finally snapped, yelling, “Mother, do you want me to live like a wind-up character?” He paused, “Like my brother, a wind-up character?”
Mycroft put down his newspaper. When his expression was finally revealed to Rose, she found him still calm and aloof, as if the sharp conflict that had just occurred had nothing to do with him. He was already tall, and even though he was looking at Rose at eye level, she had the illusion that she was being scrutinized.
Rose stared at Mycroft, her expression urgent and pleading, desperately trying to convey a message through her eyes: Please save Sherl... You are... his brother...
Or rather, it awakened his long-lost conscience and family affection.
But Mycroft remained silent; instead, the lady spoke. “I think you’re really going mad,” she said, pointing a finger straight at his forehead. “Not just your plate, Sherl. Eat all the vegetables on the table. Chlorophyll cures madness. If you eat even a little less, you’ll be locked up in the attic.”
Seeing that Sherlock was hesitant to eat, the servants dared not disobey their mistress's orders and stepped forward with their heads bowed. Some held down his arms, some pried open his lips, and some used forks to pick up cauliflower florets and stuff them into his mouth one by one.
“Chew it seven times!” the lady emphasized.
Forced binge eating caused Sherlock to vomit repeatedly, and tears welled in his eyes as he struggled and resisted in vain. Yet no one dared to stop. In the end, he was coughing violently, and large tears streamed down his face.
“Mother,” Mycroft finally stood up and gently nudged the servants.
Rose took a deep breath, and just when she thought he was going to say, "Stop punishing Sherlock," he said something else entirely:
"I'll do it."
The lady was clearly pleased with the request. She nodded readily, her face beaming with a smile: "I'd really love to have the older brother correct the younger brother himself." She glanced around and suddenly fixed her gaze on Rose.
Rose's expression at that moment was probably filled with doubt, confusion, heartache, and even resentment. In any case, the lady suddenly changed the subject and asked Rose in a joking manner, "Isn't that right, Rose?"
Rose desperately suppressed her emotions, trying to make her tone sound calm: "Mother... I, I don't know."
Ultimately, she couldn't control her emotions.
As she lowered her head, trembling, she heard the lady's voice turn cold: "Don't know? Don't know what? I think you should know what a proper Sherlock Holmes is like. Since you don't know, then the attic—"
“I was wrong! I know I was wrong!” Sherlock suddenly shook off Mycroft’s hand. “Mother, I was wrong. I’ll do it myself. I will, I will eat it all.” He stumbled and picked up the scattered knife and fork, quickly forked the food and threw it into his mouth, chewing each piece seven times.
He seemed to have tried his best to suppress his vomiting, but he was still tormented by coughing incessantly, yet he didn't stop at all. In the end, he was like a machine on the verge of falling apart.
For days on end, this scene replayed in Rose's mind like a nightmare. She finally understood why Sherlock's longing for family affection was so intense, to the point of clouding his reason. Naturally, he couldn't feel any warmth of family affection from his wife and Mycroft.
Even with the most perplexing murder cases reported in the newspapers, Sherlock could see through the fog and uncover the truth. Yet, he had complete faith in Rose, the fake sister who had lived by his side for three years, and even cared for her deeply.
A prisoner dying of thirst in the desert will not doubt a spring of clear water. People always hold onto what they cherish tightly, especially when that thing is so precious to him because it has been lost and then regained.
When Rose met Mycroft again outside the dinner table, Mycroft had already graduated from public school with outstanding grades and was going to Cambridge University to study mathematics.
From the scattered conversations at the dinner table, one could roughly discern that the lady had always wanted him to study political science so that he could later enter politics as a representative of the family.
“That will surely be your domain, Mike,” the lady said, her eyes filled with eager anticipation. “You will be able to shake up the entire political arena, and even become the mastermind behind the cabinet. At that time, the name of the Holmes family will shine alongside you.”
Mycroft replied calmly and seriously: “I have entered Cambridge with the appropriate ranking as you requested. In exchange, you should give me the freedom to choose my department. This is our previous agreement, Mother.”
The lady frowned, but seeing his almost expressionless face, she changed the words she was about to say: "But only your studies, Mike. Not your future career."
"That's a matter for later."
In short, this silent contest has temporarily ended with the lady's defeat. Today, Rose encountered Mycroft in the garden, who almost never strolls around. Perhaps because he's been in a good mood lately, he's taken a rare walk.
Sunlight filtered through the layers of lisianthus leaves, casting dappled shadows on his meticulously tailored clothes, but it couldn't penetrate his gray eyes. He looked so at ease, as if Sherlock's agonizing struggles and vomiting from weeks ago had never existed. Rose's fingers dug deep into her palms; since witnessing the atrocity at the dinner table, her feelings for this 'elder brother' had undergone a dramatic shift.
In her eyes, he was more terrifying than the lady. The lady was an outward display of tyranny, while he was a ruthless executor of meticulous calculations, an elegant accomplice.
“You’re probably still angry with me about Sherlock, aren’t you?” Mycroft broke the suffocating silence, his tone as natural as if he were commenting on the weather, even with a hint of laziness.
Rose's heart sank, and anger surged in her chest. Angry? That was too understatement.
It was a feeling of horror and disgust after witnessing the annihilation of humanity.
She forced herself to meet his emotionless eyes: "I'm angry with you? No, Mr. Holmes. I just can never understand, never understand, the deliberate encouragement of violence." She used a distant form of address.
“I’m just doing something more efficient, more controllable, and more effective at stopping my mother from abusing me further.” Mycroft’s voice remained steady, but his pace quickened slightly, as if stating an irrefutable formula: “My mother’s condition at the time, Sherlock’s madness, the servants’ brutal intervention—the variables combined, and the risk of spiraling out of control increased exponentially. If left unchecked, the outcome would only be worse.”
Rose smelled his usual, meticulous parchment scent.
“I’ll intervene,” Mycroft’s voice was low, carrying an undeniable calmness. “I can control the force, make sure the food is chewed seven times before he chokes, and stop before he suffocates. Most importantly—” His gray eyes locked onto Rose, devoid of guilt or tenderness, only a cold, analytical precision, “I can 'satisfy' Mother the fastest. Once her anger is fully ignited, the target won’t just be Sherlock. The attic, or worse… Do you want to see that?”
His last words, spoken lightly, struck Rose like a shard of ice. Besides the dark, cold attic where the lady used to punish her, what was the unspoken message of "worse"?
Rose's mind suddenly flashed back to the little house she was assigned in the orphanage as a child, the moment she celebrated Christmas with her friends around the simple fireplace, the surprised and satisfied look on the lady's face when she saw her, and her first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, and his nonsensical statement that "blood ties are a bad adhesive".
She felt a wave of dizziness. Mycroft's words cut through everything with the precision of a scalpel. She looked at his angular face, with its high nose bridge but no expression, and his eyes that seemed to see through everything yet unable to contain the emotions of ordinary people.
She was still angry, but a deeper, more powerless sorrow welled up inside her.
So... hurting him was to protect him? And... protect me?
“Maintain a necessary stability.” Mycorft’s tone returned to its usual detached, emotionless tone: “Before possessing the power to end everything.”
He turned slightly to the side, avoiding her overly direct gaze that seemed to see right through him, and turned his attention back to the bellflower bushes, as if the conversation had exhausted his patience with "inefficient communication."
“These flowers bloomed last night. They were still buds yesterday afternoon.” Rose used this to change the subject.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Oh, you mean this? Hmm, these flowers are really...fresh."
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